The kitchen garden is just as I recall it. Just as huge, and just as wondrous.
The storm forced water into narrow rivulets down the terraces, rivers and streams, creating dancing patterns in washed mud where it has receded. The sound of running water is gentle, melodic, and fat drops patter from a stand of fruit trees, all heavily laden with blossoms. Petals have been torn loose and drift upon tranquil, wide puddles that have formed in saturated ground – white feathers against fresh grass. It smells dark and earthy, fresh and clean, and new worm casts sit black within the bent leaves of the lawn. Birds peep and trill, one startles past us, and I hear the ponderous dirge of a honeybee nearby.
It has been a tense journey, creeping and inching through the lowers of the seventh circle from corridor to corridor as though we are thieves. Legolas has been invaluable, although I would never tell him as much – his elven senses enough to keep us out of sight and unnoticed by the intruders roaming the halls. They wander alone, one at a time, and we could probably have trimmed their number down but we have made the decision to remain as unnoticed as possible for now. We have spoken few words, by necessity, but Hob has asked Legolas where the assassin that was so intent upon our murder just last night has gone.
I am ashamed enough to have forgotten about Oren. In truth, I had not expected to find him there with Legolas when we exited the tunnels, and because my assumption was correct I did not think to ask where he might have gone. The answer is simple, in that Oren has gone to find his men and extract them from this rout, but I still kick myself for my lapse in attention. The Khandish man has been such a threat to us for so many days, his absence should be something I noticed, but it has simply been replaced by other things. Legolas is no longer concerned about his whereabouts, and I have become so accustomed to trusting him in such things.
When we emerge into the garden it is alarming, because after only a short time in the tunnels it is still a shock to burst upon such a concentration of life and green against so much sky. I pause, mainly because Legolas' relief and gratitude is strong enough to almost flatten me, but we are not all so smitten. Hob and a few of his men busy themselves with securing the door, for what good it will do us; Sig could probably break this door down unaided. They do their best though; dragging an incredibly heavy looking water trough to bar the way and propping it against the flimsy door. Sig helps, bless his skinny little arms, and the men praise him for his utterly useless assistance, but then we are all done.
It is as though we all deflate, our air exhaled in one breath that carries the strength from our hearts and out into the skies. Blue… it is so blue now.
I am too old to feel any shame in dropping to my bottom, now that I have a moment to rest. There are flagstones here, where the workers congregate and store their tools. For a moment I wonder whether it was sensible to plonk so gracelessly into a huge puddle but I realise that I do not care; the grass is also naught but mud and I am already soaked.
Since I have set a precedent, a number of the men follow suit. Legolas cups his hand beneath the water spigot, leaning over across the soak, drinks deeply and dunks his head beneath the ice clear spray that burst forth. I watch him scrub mud and blood from his face and hands, cup them and drink deeply, and suddenly I am more thirsty than I have ever been in my life. The spigot is an eternity away, unreachable, but Legolas hooks a rough wooden cup from where it hangs from its peg, fills it and brings it to me. Hands it over without even looking and I could kiss the pointy-eared idiot, but I do not.
He moves away, tells Sig that he is to drink as well. One of the soldiers lifts him so that he can reach, and the idiot child emulates Legolas by plunging his head into the water as well. A gasp of surprise escapes once he realises how cold the water is, and I think perhaps Sig will grow into someone exactly like Legolas. Eru help us all.
The elfling is stiff and sore, and although the others must see him as nothing but fluid grace I know the elf far better than any. He is hurting, pacing, probably unconsciously but he is frustrated and I can feel the ghost of his madness upon the edge of my mind. It is an itch, a moth bumping against a lantern, impossible to ignore.
I watch him carefully from the corner of my eye, although I try to seem as though I do not. He holds his hands out just the barest fraction and trails them in the brushing of the breeze, elegant, and I know that he reads so much in the passing of the air. So much more than I ever could. He tilts his face to the sun, a slight shift only, and he touches his fingertips to every living thing that he can; timothy grass and buddleia heads, rose and blackberry.
"Well," Hob huffs, scrubs his hand over a scalp gritty with mud and sweat. "What now?"
He blinks briefly at Sig, who is now wringing wet after his attempt to emulate Legolas, and who now plonks himself down in my puddle. Leans into me and starts to bite his thumbnail. Hob blinks, shakes his head, and shifts his gaze to Shutter, who is the reason we are here… the reason we have snuck through corridor and silent path, crept and crouched past interlopers whose ribs we would rather slide our blades between. Held our breaths in passageways we should be able to walk proudly through.
Hours of ghosting through a city that was ours just yesterday, but which no longer feels as ours… we are the intruders here. It feels wrong, and it goes against everything that we are. To walk as thieves and assassins when we are the exact opposite… it wears upon a man. Hob looks exhausted, worn.
"I will admit to some sense in a moment of rest, but we cannot remain here forever."
"Oh, I imagine we could," Shutter mumbles. He has gone from sitting to lying sprawled upon his back, eyes closed against the sky although I know he is awake. "I think we have plenty of food here, and I have never put that much stock in comfortable beds or warm hearths. Makes a man weak. Let them take the city."
Legolas snorts, but I cannot tell if it is amused or irritated or both. I feel nothing but agitation from him, and it grows by the moment. In all honestly, I am surprised he has remained as focussed as he has up until now; this lapse into the edges of his madness is long overdue and a heartening sign that he grows stronger by the day. A year ago this would be an oddity, completely out of character, but now… now I grow accustomed to listening to his whispering itch at the back of my head.
He stops suddenly, freezes in a way that has all eyes upon him. The elfling can certainly command attention at times; his presence is heavy, like a storm. Like his father.
"Whatever you are thinking to do, Legolas, simply do it," I sigh. He stops, pauses, blinks at me suspiciously.
"You do not wish to argue?"
"You will do whatever you think to do anyway, and I am too weary for wasting breath on futile things. If you suddenly drop dead though, know it to be your own fault. Your father knows you well enough not to hold me to blame."
He snorts again, but this time there is the slightest relaxing of the tension in him. Small, barely anything, and I think perhaps I am the only person that causes such tension in him. Good. I am glad. It is good for him to have to explain himself on occasion; his own men gave up on such things a very long time ago.
He stills again for a moment, because I am starting to imagine that elves can only do one thing at a time; thinking or moving, they have not the capacity for both. He reaches a decision then, strides certainly toward the barricaded door and drags the trough clear without any assistance at all.
The men complain softly – because if such things are so easy for him then he could have helped them barricade it in the first place – and they glare with as much effort as they can muster, which is not much. I roll my eyes, because I am quite sure that he has just done any small amount of healing he has managed, but it is Hob who speaks.
"Where do you go?" he demands.
"Nowhere for long," the elfling hedges. "I shall be back shortly."
"I will come," Shutter heaves himself upright.
"You will not!"
And the lad folds himself backward again with a strange huffing sound of acceptance. I am not certain he minds all that much.
"And what are we to do?" Hob raises his hands and lets them drop to his sides. "Perhaps a spot of gardening? We are soldiers, Whitecloaks as you have named us, and we need not be hidden away or protected by a single elf!"
It is a sign of Hob's own weariness and frustration that he has put voice to such a thing. He sounds childish, and I think he realises it as soon as he has spoken, but Legolas has neither the words nor the guile to deal with such an outburst. He glances at me and I sigh.
"Whitecloaks or not, friend Hob, you are not elves. He will do better as a shadow than one of a troop, and if he needed us then he would ask. You must also excuse that I speak for him; it is not rudeness but rather a lack of education. Sig's vocabulary is probably more refined than his; he is to be pitied rather than judged for it."
Legolas purses his lips, of all things, and I might find a pouting elf a lot more amusing were I drier or warmer or less hungry. It is the price I exact, when he looks to me for rescue at the most awkward times, and so I feel justified in having a measure of fun.
"I would rely better on a man who can speak his own words," Hob mutters, but it is more an attempt to hide his own annoyance. Whether it is toward Legolas or a more generic form of irritation I am unsure; I do not know him well enough. I also see the exact moment that the elfling decides to hold his tongue, to refrain from snapping at Hob, and I am of two minds as to whether it is weariness or an attempt to recover some ounce of elven mystery. It is probably the former.
Legolas turns to go, glances at me and comes to another decision. He pulls his blades free and turns them, hilt first toward me.
"Hebo hen enni," he murmurs, twisting his shoulder – the one that the mountain man all but twisted out of its socket not an hour ago – and there is a tightness to his face as he does so. I will hold onto them for him, but it does not go without notice that this is quite an honour. Legolas might divest himself of his blades because he cannot use them in the tunnels, and perhaps they pull on his hurt shoulder, but I recognise that no other elf would make that decision; they would wear them in any case rather than leave them behind. Legolas' blades are his most prized possession, but I cannot make anything of it. He catches my stunned gaze, gives me no moment to stammer out anything awkward or uncomfortable, and instead he smiles a guileless grin that has absolutely no place in this situation at all. It fades almost as fast, but it remains in those blue eyes and he has looked at me this way before. I ground him, and he needs grounding right now.
I think perhaps I grant him the same strength that I seek from him, but it is endlessly humbling to be needed this way… to be important to an immortal.
It is a moment, and we both need it. I grant him solidity and focus when he is nothing but madness and Song, he makes me feel important and necessary and I need that too. Everyone needs such things in their life.
He smiles again, I grant him something similar in return – far brighter and wider than I had imagined myself capable of – and Legolas looks then to Captain Hob.
"As to what you might do whilst I am gone," he addresses the Whitecloak Captain, his tone far more gentle than I had expected considering the turmoil that he is in. "Perhaps you should ask her?"
He gestures to the far right with little more than a tilt of his head, we follow instruction and look, and then Legolas is gone.
To our right, stepping out from the shelter of a bower where she has remained entirely hidden, stands the Lady Briar.
~{O}~
By Mahal I wish Legolas were here – the massive coward – because the air turns to molasses the moment that Briar appears.
We freeze as one, a scattering of silent faces; short and tall and thick and thin, all astounded. But then Sig tells us that he has to relieve himself – dancing on the spot as though we might not believe him – and it is difficult, after that, to remain serious.
Briar looks exhausted. Far more than any of us, though I am extremely doubtful that she has spent all night battling assassins and giants, and having mountains fall on her the way that we have. Her hair – usually so lustrous – is lank and tucked into a careless knot. She has circles beneath her eyes, her face pale, but it is not the Lady Briar's usual fairness that sets her aside. Her fire – the one that has so intimidated Legolas and begs such loyalty of her people – is dimmed, reduced somehow. It is this lessening of her spirit that makes her seem so weary to me, because the Lady Briar would be beautiful with a sack of cloth over her head.
She holds herself tight as a bowstring, and she does not wear her usual attire but rather the simplest of men's clothes. They make her look small, and she has never seemed small to me before now.
She stands alone before us, we stare right back, and it is only Sig's insistence that he really must relieve himself that breaks the moment. Shutter says that he will take him to a suitable tree so that he might water it, which makes the boy laugh, and although his tone is as jovial as ever I see the look that our thief gives his Lady. Glacial… it freezes me to the core. Briar deflates all the further beneath it.
Shutter goes, she shakes herself free, and in a second she wears her mask again. The Steward of the Second stands before us.
"So," I address her, because no one else seems ready to do much more than stare uncomfortably. "How was your night? Ours was dreadful."
"Whatever you did, it must have been important indeed," Captain Hob joins in, recovering himself. "Quite important to leave us right when you were most needed. I am quite certain that it was not to come and hide in a garden."
"Of course not," she actually has the gall to sound offended. Sighs.
"In truth, I thought I might find him… find Fallon; might stop whatever this madness is. If my brother has come here for me, then I have no need for anyone to fight on my behalf."
"Ah, but they fight in any case, and they are scoundrels and drunkards fighting with staves and clubs," Hob scowls. "Your brother has attacked the city, your circle, and those who consider themselves stewarded fight because they think they must. Because they have become separate from the rest of Minas Tirith and hold no trust in the rest of us. They fight for you, and here you are – ready to hand yourself over to him. A martyr for the slatterns and pick pockets… a sacrifice that would almost make sense if your brother had shown any sign that he intended to leave again, once all this was done. He has made no public demand for your head, or for anything at all."
"What could you possibly imagine the outcome of this to be?" I demand, and I know that we are hammering at her but we are all angry. I can feel the Whitecloaks behind me, their eyes burning into the back of my head. She can withstand it. "Why attack the seventh, when he wishes the second? Why attack at all? A coup can be conducted far more quietly, and without incurring the wrath of the entire city guard. He must know that Minas Tirith would rally… that no matter his actions, armies have failed to take this city, and he has no army. This will be over in a day, no matter how many holes they scuttle into."
"I have thought on it," Briar admits. "I cannot be certain; I could not find him. I do not think he wants the second at all, I think he wishes it destroyed. If Fallon was not killed when the darkness first arrived, then instead he was taken captive, and I have wept at what he must have endured these years. Where has he been? All of this time… I could have searched for him, found him, saved him."
I cringe for a moment, try not to let it show on my face, because just for a heartbeat I hear Aragorn's voice in my ear – a ghost from just a few days past. A voice saying that he would burn the second to the ground. I know it to have been a bluff at the time – a feint to garner an audience with this very lady before me – but in honesty? I start to doubt that my friend is beyond such a thing, were he furious enough. If anything happens to the elfling – to me – then the second circle will be ash and dust before the sun has set again.
Aragorn is a great man, but he is a man of passion and emotion, and he loves Legolas dearly. Loves all of his friends, and I wonder if he loves us better than the ramshackle den of sin that skirts the city and besmirches the whole. I am not certain. Not truly. I wish Legolas were here, because he would know.
"I knew you would find your way here eventually," the Lady Briar continues. Her voice is quiet, tired, glad that we are here. I can see it in her face… cracks in the mask.
"You are fortunate there were any of us left to come," Shutter replies, clipped and curt as he returns. He waves his hand at the clustered men, slumped in exhaustion although they remain on their feet. "This is what remains of us. A few others might still live – we became separated – but so many have been wasted over such a stupid thing."
I snort at that, and Briar's glance flickers to me. I shake my head, and I realise that I stand closer to Shutter than perhaps is natural. I grant him the support that I think perhaps I would need, were our positions reversed. I speak, and I hear nothing but disgust in my own voice.
"If the elf were here right now, hearing such a thing from you, he would walk out of those city gates and return to the forest, there to remain until he was ready to sail. He thinks little of men as it is, and Shutter is right. So many lives lost because of this."
"How certain are you of your brother's intentions?" Shutter asks. There is a furrow in his brow, a coldness upon him, and I am not sure that I like it. It sits upon his face as though it has been there many times, many times over a short life, and I think I prefer the buffoon. I think I prefer the inappropriate joviality and calmness of him. He reminds me of Idhren a lot, and right now I see it clearly enough to recognise it.
"No more or less than you might be," she snaps back at him in return. "You remember him just as well as I do; the boy we knew would never have done this. Where has he been, Shutter? For all of these years, where has he been? Nowhere good I am certain, and if I had been left for dead and lost everything… if my mind had perhaps been poisoned, or if I had forgotten love and remembered only that loss. If I had come to hate it… to hate such feelings and the memories, the city, the people that cause them… if it were me, and these things had happened, then perhaps this is exactly what I might have done in his stead."
~{O}~
We have little chance to digest what the Lady Briar has said, because it is at that exact moment that Legolas returns. And because it is Legolas, it is quite dramatic.
The little wooden door to our garden slams open, sending my heart up into my nose, and a man falls through it with a cry of pain. He slams into the ground, tumbles and tries to rise – to flee – but trips and falls again. He is nothing but blood and bruises, his face is a mess, and he looks absolutely terrified. He turns, sees us all blinking at him in surprise.
Unexpected arrivals seem to be a theme for the morning.
"Keep him away from me!" he cries. "He is a demon! You must keep him away!"
I sigh as the tattered and bloodied man scrambles back from the door, skidding upon elbow and heel. I gesture for Sig to join me, and he is frightened enough to do so willingly. There is nothing that I can do to protect the lad from this.
"What happens next, you are to watch," I tell him. He curls into the side of me, fitting perfectly, and I tuck my arm about his shoulder and pull him close. "You are not to be frightened, because there is nothing for you to fear, but you must learn. This is not the man that you are to become."
Legolas strides through the door like a spectre. A lithe figure, slender and whip lean, and he walks as though he has all of the time in the world, because he is one of the very few that does. He steps over the ruins of the door, cold as the winter, and the man scrambles backward upon his elbows. His eyes are wide – I can see all of the white around them – and I can understand why.
Laegrim elves have a place inside of them capable of such cruelty. I know that it is there; I have seen it before, and whilst I have no stomach for it myself I know that they do not see things the way that I do. It is simply how they are. A wild dog can be vicious. The summer can be kind but can also birth the most violent of storms, and the forest in the winter is cruel. Wood elves are barely out of the woods, barely even a moment away from the wild at any time, and they hear the Song so clearly… they reflect it like starlight upon midnight snow fields.
Legolas will torture a man to get answers, if he is pushed far enough, and he has certainly been pushed. Considering the last few days that I have lived, in all honesty I cannot find it in myself to muster up the outrage I know that I should feel.
I wonder what has become of me, sometimes.
Hob moves forward as if to stop this, because he is a far better man than I am, but I still him with just a look. He pauses, and although I know it wars within him, he knows just the same as I do; Legolas cannot be stopped right now, and he only puts himself in danger by trying.
Legolas reaches the man upon the ground and kicks him savagely in the ribs, sending him rolling across the flagstones with a yelp. Continues to walk, reaches him again, yanks his head up by the hair and breaks his nose with a sharp blow. Drops him, choking and sputtering with blood, and stamps upon his leg so that his knee snaps in the wrong direction.
The man screams, a shrill and awful sound, tearing his own throat raw. Weeps and spits blood, mewls in pain, and all the while Legolas says nothing at all. He stands silently over the sobbing man, bird eyes cold and calculating – emotionless.
I feel sickened, horrified, but there is a small part of me – a very small part – that gets a small measure of enjoyment from this. I tuck Sig further into my side – he quivers beneath my arm – and I watch the Legolas that I never knew… the Legolas that came long before I did. The Legolas that he still is, deep inside.
The man snarls at the elfling through bloodstained teeth. Spits terrible words, visceral and cruel. He is quite young, if weathered and lean, and I can tell he has seen much of battle. Hard times indeed, and much of death.
"Where?" Legolas asks softly, quiet enough for his voice to almost be lost.
"He will kill me," the man spits.
"I will kill you," the elfling promises, and there is such certainly and such coldness in his tone I shudder to hear it. I can hear the men behind me starting to shift and fidget in discomfort, and I wonder if many of them had started to consider the elfling an ally… someone they might approach and pass the time of day with. Perhaps some of them already have. I do not imagine that will be happening again after this moment. "How long the killing takes… that is up to you. Where?"
The man curses again, Legolas flows forward, grabs his upper arm and twists it sharply to one side. I hear the crack of his elbow. Legolas does not stop there.
He pulls his hunting knife free and severs the tendons in the man's arm, and this time his screams are that of a wounded animal; raw and afraid and terrible. Agonised.
"Where?" Legolas asks again. Just as soft, just as flat.
"Eru preserve us, Legolas!" I breathe.
Larke stands, grim and pale, but he looks determined rather than horrified. He strides over to me, gives me a look that could have melted the beard off my face if I were brave enough to meet his eyes, and he grabs Sig by the arm. Takes him away from this perhaps a bit more roughly than the boy deserves. Larke is a far better man than I am. I am starting to think that most are.
I glance at the man – nameless and broken and ragged. I snarl, but perhaps I am mostly angry at myself.
"Answer him, for the love of Mahal; I have no desire to see him tear you apart. It is lengthy and we are in a rush."
The man looks at me, grimacing through tears of pain, then looks up at Legolas. The elfling stands as he does sometimes – still as though he is not breathing – and I see cold hatred there upon his knife sharp face. Summer blue eyes burn glacier cold, and the silence does not last for long. Legolas grows impatient, breaks his stillness instantly and walks toward our hostage as though this is nothing to him… literally nothing. He pulls his hunting blade from his boot, twirls and readies it, casts his gaze up and down the prone form as though deciding upon where he will cut next. I see the exact moment in which this man breaks. Legolas will flay him to the bone if he must, and our captive realises it all in one moment.
"Stay!" he cries, "Stay your hand, and stop this – curse you all but I beg it! Monsters, all of you… beasts!"
"Monsters, aye," I murmur, "but we were peaceful before you came. Remember that."
"You would do better to cut my throat," he snarls, tears running down his cheeks. I feel a tickle in the back of my head, and it is the old Gimli; the Gimli that I once was. He whispers of the pain this man must feel, the fear and the pride, the isolation. That he was a child once and likely has a mother, likely has a sister or a brother, likely has a tale as to why he became the way he has. I brush it aside like cobwebs, because that Gimli never knew war the way I do. That Gimli never learned to silence such things, never realised the impossibility of reconciling what should be done with what has to be done.
"Have a care for your words," Briar says, approaching the sorry scene. She has changed, this last hour. She is no longer small, and a glimmer inside of me shifts in relief to see it. Legolas is not the only one whose strength I rely upon. "The prince will grant your death with little persuasion, and none of us will stay his hand or think another second on it afterward. We ask only one more time; where is my brother?"
The man pauses, just a beat, and I can see a lot warring in his eyes. It is the first time that I see real emotion there other than pain or anger, and in its place I see resignation. He folds, and although it is little more than an exhalation his whole body changes with it. He becomes hurt and smaller and miserable all in one moment, but the silence has gone on for too long. Legolas steps forward, quite casually and unconcerned, grabs the man's hand although he has to fight for it. The man begins to struggle; weakly and ineffectively because the tendons are cut on one arm, and the elbow broken on the other.
The elfling wrangles an index finger from the knot the man is trying to make of his appendage, slaps aside the other arm as he begins to shove and punch and fight. Legolas clamps his finger with hands that have drawn a hundred thousand bows – they are like iron – and he brings the blade forward quite casually, as though he chops off fingers daily. As though it is nothing to him at all. The man keens and squeals, and it such a broken sound I am starting to feel truly ill. Before, he was insolent and defiant and easy to feel hatred toward, but now he is different. He is broken already, now this is simply cruelty.
"No!" he shrieks, "no please, I beg it stop!" He tries to bat Legolas away, tries to fight him, but Legolas has already cut the tendons in his other arm and so it flops uselessly against the elfling's chest. Trailing more blood into his shirt, numb and clumsy. I fight the urge to close my eyes. "Stop it! The King is holed up in his quarters, not even so far from here, and we cannot gain entry but we barricade him within. Fallon… he wanted to make him furious, as angry as he could, and so he remains in the King's Throne room. You were outside of The Tower of Ecthelion… you were right there and yet you came here. Had you gone there instead you might have broken through and ended this, but you did not."
He grins then, a mad and twisted thing. Blood stains his teeth and his face is a wreckage of bruising and hurt, and he starts to laugh even as tears stream from his eyes. He leans forward, sways, spits blood upon the bright grass to his side.
"My entire family perished in Osgiliath," he hisses, snake mean and furious. "I never had a mother, but my father and brothers died to protect a ruin of a city for nothing. Nothing. I was offered a chance for retribution and I took it gladly. I hope this city burns, I hope it is nothing but ashes, but in lieu of that I will accept blood for what I have lost."
He opens his mouth as though to say more, and I can see nothing but vitriol in him rising and burning and choking him. Instead, Legolas breathes up behind him like a ghost and slides his hunting blade into the nape of his neck and the back of his skull. Severs his spine in an instant, and the man flops dead upon the ground as though he has been cut from the world entirely. He lies, flat eyed and breathless upon rain damp soil. In the distance I can hear Sig begin to cry.
I look to Legolas, and he returns the gaze. Challenges me, stands without remorse with his blade still in his hand. Stares without blinking and waits for recrimination, but I give him none. It is the worst I have seen of him for a long time… a long time indeed. I think perhaps the last time I saw such coldness in him was the War itself, and for a second there is ash and smoke and blood between us – screams of the dying and the scent of blood.
He waits for my judgement and does not find it. He is ready for battle of another kind, and I think that this one might actually hurt him. Legolas thinks much of my opinion of him, I know that he does, and there is still enough of a link between us… enough for him to have certainly felt the horror and disgust I feel right now. I am exhausted in my heart and mind, but I cannot fight with him right now. In truth, I think that he has done what we all know was needed, and what none of us would have been prepared to do. As Shutter was prepared to be the villain for me earlier, Legolas has once more dirtied his fëa so that we did not need to. It is lucky that the fëa of a laegrim elf is already so pure, because his would have been shredded into nothing long ago otherwise.
He sees this in me, sees that he has no battle here, and he finally diminishes. Relaxes. Sheathes his blades. Blinks a slight wetness from his eyes in relief, although it could easily pass for a gesture of weariness. He tucks things away, wipes his bloodied hands upon the sodden grass and takes a moment to breathe the damp morning air.
I watch him, and I am careful to lock my thoughts as tightly as I can. My mind continues upon its path, and whilst I understand why he has done this thing – this horrible thing – I wonder if he deserves the chance to centre himself after this. He should feel sickened, he should carry the burden, but then I remind myself what Legolas is. I cannot judge him by my standards… and yet I still do. I do.
"Hide that thing," Hob speaks up, finally. He clears his throat because his voice sounds thick and small, and when he speaks again it is clear and strong. "Take it out of my sight."
Sig's sight.
I turn away as two of his men grab the arms and legs of the body before us, drag it away where it can no longer accuse us. I catch Hob's eye by accident, and he looks perhaps just the same as I do; sick and dour, pale. He closes his face so that it shows nothing at all, but when I look to Shutter I see none of it. I see satisfaction, a set jaw, and I know that he has already felt far too much this morning. He glances at the elfling, and I see a thousand thoughts cross his face. Curiosity and respect, fear.
"So we have two places to be, and only twenty five of us in total," Larke speaks up. I think he is recovering from earlier; recovering enough to involve himself again, at the very least. "Do we split ourselves further?"
"No," Legolas returns to us. He is back to his usual self – or at least the part of him that functions well with others. He is not cruel and murderous as he has just been, or the insane nightmare he has become recently. He is not the joyful and young forest spirit I know that he can be either, but he is the Legolas that most people know. I sometimes wonder how many masks he wears, and then I wonder if I will ever get to know the whole of him. They are not different parts of Legolas… all of this is him. All of it.
"We go to the King," he says, and his tone says that he will not be arguing about this. "I say this not as his friend, but because he is the most important person in this city. His safety is paramount."
"If he is barricaded in his quarters, then surely he is safe enough?" Larke points out.
"Aye, but would you wager on such a thing?" I ask. "Safe in his rooms, or in danger with us, King Elessar was a warrior long before he was a King. We need him, and if it helps to think of him as a Ranger instead then you should do so. Queen Arwen is an elf, for Mahal's sake. Have you ever met an elf that could not handle a blade better than any man?"
"I know precisely one elf," Larke points out with a frown, but Hob holds his hand to stay him.
"I agree with the prince," he says. "We were soldiers, all of us, and our duty is to this city. The safety of our King is paramount, and I will not leave him a hostage of our enemy."
"How are we enough?" Shutter asks. His tone says he does not speak to be difficult, it is a very real question. I cast my eyes around at our party, and beneath my scrutiny I see men straighten and school themselves to seem far less hurt or weary than they are. They fool me not at all, and Captain Hob scrapes his hand over his shorn scalp with a sigh. There are too few of us… far too few.
"If only we knew where the others have gone to," he mutters to himself. "If there are any of us left, we could make good use of them right now."
"I think our concerns on that might be answered," Legolas says, and it is a mysterious enough statement to have all eyes upon him. He has that strange look, distant, his eyes focussing upon nothing at all and his head tilted as if he listens. I know that look, and I wait to see what he has heard or seen, been told by the passing of clouds, or however he does it.
We wait a while, long enough for it to become uncomfortable, but then the elfling turns just in time to see Oren striding up the staggering and awkward steps. Up from the lowest terrace of the garden, up toward us, and I swear to my ancestors I am quite done with people who appear out of the air. I thought I might experience less of it with only one elf this time, but it seems not so. The only place those steps lead to is open air and a drop from the edge of Mindolluin… how he has reached the terrace is the guess of anyone. I cannot find it in myself to be cross though, because behind him there are perhaps another fifteen men.
I struggle to my feet, Legolas grips my arm like a vice, and I stop with my heart hammering in my throat, fear making my arms numbs and leaden. I glance to him and he is calm, relaxed. Almost pleased.
The Khandish assassins come to us.
TBC
Hey guys, really good to see you again. Genuinely. This week has been horrendous.
I did say that this chapter was a bit brutal, and I took a bit of a chance with showing this side of Legolas. A part of me kind of enjoyed it, because I - personally - knew this was in him, yet I've never actually shown it before. It was uncomfortable to write, but I'm weirdly happy with it. I really, really want to hear your thoughts on it. I tend to get good feedback when he's being Princely!Legolas but I've never shown him as War!Legolas to this degree before. I legitimately need to speak to people about this!
I've had a few messages recently asking if this fic will be continued, so I wanted to address this quickly. I WILL NOT abandon this fic, absolutely not. The chapters are taking me a bit longer recently due to RL (will come to that shortly) but writing is my sanctuary, my escape, my relaxation. I apologise for the gaps between some of the chapters, but please bear with me. I always come back! A random prompt here and there are sometimes the catalyst for me to actually pull my finger out and post, so please continue to message me. You might be the person that instigates the chapter!
Since you last heard from me I have been put under threat of, fought off, and yet again survived redundancy in the company I have been working for since I was 18 years old. I am now a 35 year old manager of a department I love, and damned good at what I do. I am invested in this place, so this has been challenging... especially considering how much money they were offering me. I have given up a life changing amount of money for a much more difficult job, I've been living off caffeine and cigarettes to the point that I can't remember the last time I blinked, but I can honestly say I am loving it. Literally loving it.
OMG I AM SO EXHAUSTED.
Anyway, enough of that. I actually have a oneshot brewing at the back of my head that's been there since the spring and is finally starting to take real shape. A lot of you will know that I tend to take a break over Christmas, but at the moment my chapters are so far apart that you probably wouldn't even notice. The oneshot might be your Christmas present, who knows?!
Really would love to speak to you guys in the reviews, love to hear from you, and hope you have a great weekend :)
MyselfOnly